‘I pride myself on it,’ said Miss Dolby.
2
Daphne Dolby’s first port of call before going on to her office was number 5 Murphy’s Mews, which is situated in the seedier part of Chelsea and inhabited by some of the most dubious characters in London. A few may have hearts of gold, but the best that can be said for most of them is that they are not at the moment actually wanted by the police, though it is always a matter for speculation as to when the police may not feel a yearning for their society. One of these was Daphne’s betrothed, Sir Jaklyn Warner. He had been living there for some weeks and would continue to live there as long as the rent-collector was prepared to accept charm of manner and glibness of speech as a substitute for cash.
Arriving at the battered front door of number 5, Daphne did not knock on it. Jaklyn, who always felt uneasy when people knocked on his door, had asked her not to. Placing two fingers of each hand on an upturned tongue, she emitted a shrill whistle, and Jaklyn appeared in his shirt sleeves with a glass in his hand.
‘Oh, hullo, Daph,’ he said. ‘Thank God you’ve come.’
With those who had known them both it was a constant source of debate as to whether Jaklyn was or was not a more slippery character than his late father. Some said Yes, some said No, but it was agreed that it was a close thing, and the opinion of those who had suffered at their hands that the crookedness of each was such as to enable him to hide at will behind a spiral staircase was universally held. The only difference between the two was that the sixth Baronet had been bluff and hearty and had furthered his ends by slapping people on the back, while the seventh achieved his by looking wistful and pathetic.
He was doing so now.
‘Daph,’ he said, getting the tremolo into his voice which he found so effective in his dealings with women, ‘I’m in a terrible hole.’
‘Again?’
Over her glass Daphne fixed those clear eyes of hers on him. She had no illusions about the man she intended to marry. Theirs was not one of the great romances. She had become engaged to him because his bride would be Lady Warner, and he had become engaged to her because she had plenty of money.
She was waiting now for the inevitable moment when she would be given the opportunity of transferring a portion of that money from her possession to his.
‘It’s not my fault this time,’ he said. ‘I had this tip on a dead cert and the horse won all right, but there was an objection.’
‘How much do you want?’
‘Ten pounds.’
‘That all?’
‘Well, actually twenty.’
‘I can manage that.’
‘Thank God.’
‘Merely remarking that after that disaster at Kempton Park you promised never to bet again.’
‘I know, I know. But when you’re given an absolutely sure thing.’
‘Yes, no doubt you acted from the best motives. But I wish you were like the raven.’
‘Raven? How do you mean? What raven?’
‘The one who said “Nevermore”.’
‘Oh, yes, I see. Of course. Ha, ha. Good Lord, it must be fifteen years since I heard anyone mention that poem. My old guv’nor used to make me recite it as a kid when he got a bit bottled.’
‘I’ll bet you had him rolling in the aisles.’
The financial preliminaries concluded, Jaklyn was at his ease and in the mood for light conversation.
‘Well, old girl,’ he said. ‘What’s new?’
‘My address for one thing. From now on you will find me at 3A Fountain Court, Park Lane. Make a note of it.’
‘You’re joking.’
‘No. That’s where I’ll be.’
‘Have you been left a fortune?’
‘Somebody else has, and I shall be living with her. By the way, you must know her, because I saw you together at the theatre one night.’ And, she added silently, I bet she paid for the tickets. ‘Look in your little black book. You’ll find her among the F’s. Sally Fitch.’
‘Sally Fitch? Good Lord.’
‘You do know her?’
‘I used to know her quite well. Her father was the vicar of a village in Worcestershire and did some cramming on the side. He coached me when I was trying for the Diplomatic Service. Sally Fitch! Well, for heaven’s sake. But who on earth would be leaving her … did you say a fortune?’
‘Figure of speech. But certainly not a windfall to be sneezed at. Twenty-five thousand pounds and this flat in Park Lane. I’m living there with her.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I’ve been hired to.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘You don’t have to.’
‘I can’t see how you get into the act.’
‘There are certain conditions attached to the legacy, and I’m there to see that she observes them.’
‘What conditions?’
‘Never mind. They’ve nothing to do with you. Well, I must be getting along. Heavy day at the office. All sorts of arrangements to make, now that I shall be away so much.’
She left Jaklyn in pensive mood. He was not a man to whom you could mention that a female of his acquaintance had acquired twenty-five thousand pounds and a flat in Park Lane without stirring his brain to activity. Even while his betrothed had been talking the thought had flashed into his mind that if he hurried round to Laburnam Road and asked Sally to marry him, he would have every chance of being successful. They had once been engaged, and surely some of the old affection must still be lingering. And he could picture his astonishment when, nestling in his arms, she informed him that there would be no need for them to live on bread and cheese and kisses as she was now an heiress.
Thus ran his thoughts, and he would have been out of Murphy’s Mews and into a cab at lightning speed, had not there occurred at this juncture a sudden knocking on the front door.
It gave him pause. As he had told Daphne, when people knocked on his door he felt uneasy. Who this was, he could not say. It might be the rent-collector, it might be the tailor to whom he was so deeply in debt or somebody hostile from the racing world. Whoever it was, he shrank from meeting him, and as these fellows had a nasty knack of waiting on the pavement outside in the hope of catching him sneaking out under the erroneous impression that the coast was clear, he reluctantly decided to abandon his journey to Laburnam Road and wait till his visitor had gone away.
Consoling himself with the thought that a letter would be equally as effective as a personal interview, he refilled his glass and sat down to write it.
He made it extremely passionate.
3
Sally, her toilet completed, was looking forward to lunch with mixed feelings. The new dress was all that she had expected of it, but she had a haunting fear that she was not going to be at her best. Excited by anticipation of the visit to Nichols, Erridge, Trubshaw and Nichols, she had slept badly on the previous night, and this had resulted in a tendency to yawn. It would be disastrous, she felt, if she yielded to this weakness at the luncheon table. Joe had struck her as an amiable young man, but even amiable young men resent it if the guest they are entertaining yawns at them all the time.
Hoping for the best, she made her way to the front door, and opening it found Mabel Potter playing truant on the other side, wriggling with eagerness to hear the latest news.
‘Sally!’ cried Mabel. ‘I was afraid I had missed you. Are you off to see those lawyers?’
‘I’ve been.’
‘What happened? Did you learn of something to your advantage?’
‘I certainly did,’ said Sally.
She could not have asked for a more receptive audience. Mabel’s favourite reading had always been the novels of the Rosie M. Banks and Leila J. Pinkney whose output so offended the artistic soul of Joe Pickering, and in those this sort of thing happened all the time. She would have considered it most unusual if an impecunious heroine had not been left a substantial legacy by someone.
The figure stunned her a little. ‘Tw
enty-five thousand pounds! ‘
‘And a flat.’
‘Where?’
‘Fountain Court, Park Lane.’
‘Sounds terrific.’
‘It is.’
‘You’ve seen it?’
‘I’ve just been there.’
‘Come along and show me.’
‘There’s no time.’
‘Of course there’s time. I only want to look at it. It won’t take five minutes.’
It was soon evident, however, that five minutes was an under-estimate. 3A Fountain Court fascinated Mabel. She flitted to and fro with squeaks of approval, while Sally, feeling drowsier than ever, sank into one of the deep armchairs and closed her eyes.
It was a disastrous move. When she opened them again, it was with a scream of dismay.
‘Oh, heavens! It’s two o’clock!’
Mabel Potter, reclining on a neighbouring settee with the air of one who has never been so comfortable in her life, nodded composedly.
‘Yes, you had a nice sleep.’
‘Why didn’t you wake me?’
‘It never occurred to me. I could see you were tired out, and no wonder after all this excitement. A good sleep was what you needed.’
‘But I’ve missed my lunch.’
‘Lots of doctors say that’s a good thing. Charlie often skips lunch. He says it does wonders for him. Makes him bright in the afternoon.’
‘He’ll think I stood him up on purpose.’
‘He? What he would that be?’
‘A man named Pickering. He wrote a play and I interviewed him, and I met him again at the lawyers. He’s a friend of one of the partners.’
‘And you want to see him and explain?’
‘And I don’t know where he lives.’
‘Well, for heaven’s sake it’s quite simple. You’ve only got to ask the partner he’s a friend of. Ring him up.’
Sally relaxed. Not for the first time she found Mabel’s practical way of looking at things helpful. She supposed secretaries of theatrical managers had to be like that.
‘Of course. He’s bound to know, isn’t he? But I must go to Barribault’s first. He may still be there.’
‘Pickering?’
‘Yes.’
‘When were you supposed to meet him?’
‘One o’clock.’
‘And it’s now two fifteen. If he’s still there after waiting an hour and a quarter, which’ll be an hour and a half by the time you clock in, he must be something quite out of the ordinary.’
And it was as she spoke that it suddenly dawned on Sally that Joseph Pickering most definitely was.
Chapter Seven
Joe was not still there. There are limits to the staying powers of even the most enamoured, and he had eventually been compelled to recognise that this was just another of the slings and arrows and abandon his vigil.
The emotions of an ardent young man who has asked the girl he loves to lunch and has waited an eternity without the pleasure of her company are necessarily chaotic, and he had them all. On the whole bewilderment predominated. She had seemed so friendly, so eager to better their acquaintance. He found it incredible that she could simply have decided on reflection to have nothing more to do with him. But apparently she had, and all that was left to him was to accept the situation, dismiss her if possible from his mind and concentrate on this Llewellyn who, according to Jerry Nichols, was anxious to secure his services. He was now standing outside the door of 8 Enniston Gardens, the bell of which he had just rung.
The door opened, revealing a tall thin man with gentleman’s gentleman stamped all over him. He was carrying a suitcase.
Joe said he had come to see Mr Llewellyn.
‘Go right in. He’s in there.’
‘Perhaps you will lead the way?’
‘Not me. I’m through.’
‘You’re leaving?’
‘You’re right, I’m leaving. Remarks I can put up with. Tantrums I don’t object to. But throwing porridge at a man, that I will not have.’
And so saying the tall thin man passed on his way.
He left Joe a little uncertain as to how to proceed. His late companion’s remarks had been brief, even terse, but he had said enough to establish beyond a doubt that behind the door which he had indicated with a jerk of the thumb there lurked something rather unusual in the way of prospective employers. He had an unpleasant feeling of being confronted with a situation to which he was unequal, like a nervous knight of King Arthur’s court who, having undertaken to engage in personal combat with a fire-breathing dragon, finds that he has forgotten to bring his magic sword along with him. The years rolled away, and he was once more a boy of eleven, standing outside the study of the headmaster of his preparatory school, the latter having announced his wish to see Pickering there after morning prayers.
Rooted to the spot is a neat way of describing his position, and he might have remained so rooted indefinitely had not the door to which the man who disliked having porridge thrown at him had alluded suddenly flown open, the motive power behind it a large stout middle-aged individual with a bald head and a glare like a searchlight.
‘Get out,’ said this formidable apparition. ‘I don’t want any.’
Joe, though far from feeling at his ease, was able to say ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Whatever it is you’re selling. If it’s magazine subscriptions to help you through college, I don’t give a damn if you never see the inside of a blasted college. Bosher had no business to let you in. Wait there a moment and I’ll ring for him to come and throw you out. Where the devil is Bosher?’
‘Gone.’
‘Gone?’
‘With the wind.’
‘You mean he’s quit?’
‘He said that was his intention. He had a suitcase with him.’
The news did not seem to depress the stout man.
‘Well, easy come, easy go,’ he said.
‘He let me in,’ said Joe, ‘and didn’t even start to announce me, so anxious was he to be off and away. I gathered that there had been a little friction.’
‘He burned my breakfast cereal, and I threw it at him.’
‘Ah, that would account for his peevishness. Many people dislike having breakfast cereal thrown at them. I for one.’
‘And who are you?’
‘My name is Joseph Pickering. You, I take it, are Mr Llewellyn. I was sent here by Nichols, Erridge, Trubshaw and Nichols. They said you wanted to see me. Which,’ said Joe, ‘you are now doing.’ A complete change had come over the stout householder. No longer glaring, he reached for Joe’s hand and shook it.
‘Oh, that’s who you are, is it? Glad to meet you, Pickering.’
‘Nice of you to say so.’
‘I like the look of you. You give me the impression of being just the steady level-headed man I require.’
‘That’s good.’
‘Couldn’t be better. Sit down and I’ll fill you in.’ It was almost with jauntiness that Joe accepted the invitation. The tremors which had oppressed him at the beginning of this interview had vanished as completely as had the recent Bosher, and he saw now that Mr Llewellyn was simply one of those lovable characters who readily explode but whose explosions, owing to their hearts being in the right place, are sound and fury signifying nothing. He had met them before, and he knew the type. They huffed and they puffed, but you just sat tight and waited till they blew over. As for throwing porridge at the breakfast table, that was a mere mannerism, easily overlooked by anyone broad-minded. He anticipated a happy association with his future employer.
At this point he noticed that his future employer was looking at him with an odd closeness.
‘Hey!’ said Mr Llewellyn.
‘Yes?’ said Joe.
‘I’ve seen you before.’
‘Really?’
‘Where were you on the night of October the fifteenth?’
Joe winced. It was a night of which he did not care to be reminded, the nigh
t on which the comedy Cousin Angela had breathed its last.
‘I was at the Regal Theatre.’
‘In front?’
‘Talking to the stage-doorkeeper—’
‘I thought so. You’re the fellow who gave me the bum’s rush when I wanted to knock the stage-door guy’s block off. You attached yourself to the seat of my pants and slung me out.’
It was a severe shock to Joe, and had he not been sitting he would probably have reeled. His opalescent dreams of nestling into the position of Mr Llewellyn’s right-hand man, no move made on the other’s part without consulting him and a princely salary coming in every Friday, expired with a low gurgle. He was not unintelligent, and he knew that in this world a young man has the choice between two forms of self-expression when dealing with an elder whose patronage he is seeking. He can so ingratiate himself with him as to become his trusted confidant, or he can take him by the seat of the trousers and throw him out of stage doors. He cannot do both.
To his astonishment he saw only benevolence in his companion’s gaze. If Mr Llewellyn was not looking at him like a fond father at a favourite son, he told himself that he knew less about fond fathers and the way they scrutinised favourite sons than he had supposed.
‘Pickering,’ said Mr Llewellyn, ‘you little know what a signal service you were doing me when you acted as I have described. Your treatment of the script was just what was needed to make it box office.’
It seemed to Joe, though his grasp on the gist was necessarily insecure, that the thing to do was to smirk in a modest but self-satisfied way, as if, while gratified to think that he had been of service to Mr Llewellyn, he had only done what any man would have done. He did so, and Mr Llewellyn continued, ‘Critics would call it a coincidence that you happened to be on the right spot at just the right moment, not that critics matter a damn. They all said that my Two Hearts in Mozambique was a bust, and it grossed twenty million. How did you come to be at the stage door that night?’
‘It was the last night of my play. I had been saying goodbye to the company.
‘You wrote that play?’